


All Our Broken Parts

by roseygal99



Series: BatFam Angsty/Whumpy Stuff [8]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson Whump, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Protective Jason Todd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:06:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28948650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseygal99/pseuds/roseygal99
Summary: Jason will not let this happen again. He can't. But what if he's already too late?
Relationships: Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Series: BatFam Angsty/Whumpy Stuff [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2049657
Comments: 19
Kudos: 281





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters posted regularly cuz I hate long waits too

Dick Grayson wasn’t afraid to die.

Sure, he didn’t exactly look _forward_ to it, but he wasn’t scared of it either. He’d learned a long time ago that there was no point in fearing the inevitable.

But Dick also wasn’t stupid. He knew the risks of his job, how dangerous this city was even without a mask. Every night he went out was like closing his eyes and taking a step towards a cliff and praying that his foot hit solid ground. One day he might close his eyes and take the step and find nothing but open air beneath him.

He knew that and he accepted it. He’d done so since he was nine years old.

But to be honest, he’d always pictured himself growing old with someone special, doing the whole grandparent thing with slippers and rocking chairs and prescription bottles everywhere. He daydreamed about it sometimes on long patrols.

His parents hadn’t gotten to do it. Neither had the parents of most of the people in his life. They all died young, violent deaths. And if he was honest, part of his desire to grow old was born out of a need to break that cycle. To be the one who finally _lived_.

He kept that dream tucked away, though. A small, fragile thing that he forced himself not to cling to too desperately. And if you’d asked him a week ago or even eighteen years ago if he was afraid to die, he would’ve offered a wry grin and said, “Nah. We all gotta die someday _,_ right?”

And he would’ve meant it. Even if that meant that he wouldn’t get his wish; that he wouldn’t live long enough to watch his hair gray.

_We all gotta die someday._

Just… not like this.

“Dick? _Dick_?” Oracle’s voice buzzed in Dick’s ear, tinny and urgent like a fly.

“M’yeah…?”

“Stay awake, okay? You gotta stay awake.”

Dick’s head lolled as he dragged his tongue along the painful holes where there had once been molars. He turned and spit a mouthful of blood, getting most of it on his arm and shoulder.

“I’m… I’m awake,” he rasped.

“Good. Hood’s almost there. ETA five minutes.”

Below, the fire raged hungrily, snapping wood and shattering glass. Smoke trickled up through the floorboards.

“Caref–” His warning broke off in a cough.

“Dick?”

“Fire… Bombs…”

“Jesus Christ,” Oracle breathed, keys clattering in the background. “There are bombs in there with you? Why didn’t you– How many?”

Dick’s eyes flicked around the room. The boxes of explosives blurred and doubled; he blinked hard. “Six… crates… No. Eight.”

Oracle cursed. It was odd coming from her, a rare break in her practiced steadiness that made his stomach clench.

“All right, I’ll let the others know. Just hang in there all right? It’s gonna be okay.”

“’Kay…” he mumbled.

The line went silent and Dick battled the heaviness of his eyelids, the wooziness that was dragging him down into darkness, to rest. He shifted, straining weakly against the ropes, and his shoulder screamed. His wrists, rubbed raw from previous escape attempts, protested violently. A guttural moan escaped him as his head flopped forward again and blood and drool oozed over his swollen lip.

His comm clicked. “You there, Dick?”

Red Hood. Jason.

“Uh-huh…” The beginnings of sunrise caught the debris in the air and threw his shadow long against the door in front of him. How many days had it been already? Two? Three?

“Good,” Hood said. “Just making sure you’re not taking a beauty nap in there. You better be ready when I get there to spring you.”

He swallowed hard, conjuring a weak smile that he hoped reached his voice when he said, “You… kidding? I’m packed and… everything.”

Hood laughed, a short, forced bark of sound. Then, earnestly, “This isn’t it. You know that, right? I’m getting you out of there.”

Dick’s throat ached. He swallowed hard. “Right… ‘cause of the…” – he hacked violently and grit his teeth against the searing pain in his head – “…nieces and nephews, right?”

“Damn right. You and O owe me some kids to corrupt. Who else is gonna teach Jason Jr. how to shoot a gun?”

Dick chuckled; it sounded more like another cough. “That’s not how… names work.”

“All right then. Just Jason.”

Dick smiled, but it was short-lived. Staring at the orange flickers through the slats in the floor, he could feel the heat of it lapping at his feet, even up here.

“Hood…” Dick began _._

“You’re gonna be fine. Two minutes.”

Dick listened to his own breaths, his heartbeat, the fire. The explosives loomed around him like specters in the gathering light of day.

He did not have two minutes.

“I trust you,” he said anyway, blinking tears free from his lashes.


	2. The Things We Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are said, people get hurt, party plans are made.
> 
> OR
> 
> Dick and Jason meet on a roof. They don't leave unscathed.

**_Two weeks ago._ **

Up here, twelve stories into the air, the wind ripped across the rooftops mercilessly, yanking and pushing against everything in its path and willing them over the edge. Red Hood stood against it, unmoving. A few feet away, a man stared up at him, propped on his palms and drenched in sweat despite the chill in the air.

Hood squatted and pulled out a gun. “You see this? We’re gonna call this Option A. And that over there,” he said, pointing to the edge of the roof, “is gonna be Option B. Got it?”

The man didn’t respond. Hood continued anyway.

"The thing about Option B is that it’ll be quick. Gravity’ll do its thing and that’ll be the end of it. But Option A, on the other hand, well, that one’s really up to me. And I can be a little petty sometimes.”

“Y-you’re bluffing. You guys don’t kill people.”

“You guys?” Hood echoed.

“You’re part of B-Batman’s crew, right?”

Hood nearly laughed out loud. “You got it all wrong, pal. We do little team-ups now and then, but you’d be better off thinking of me more like a free agent. I have my own way of doing things.”

“No. I’ve seen what you all do. You don’t do stuff like this. I bet that’s not even a real–”

Hood fired the gun a few inches from one of the man’s splayed hands, sending up a small explosion of gravel. The man shrieked.

“Anything else?”

“Hood!” Nightwing demanded in his ear. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Working.”

“That’s not what it sounds like.”

“Then stop listening.” Hood redirected his attention to the man. “You have five seconds to tell me something interesting or the next shot’ll be a lot closer. Five.”

“I don’t know anything! I swear!”

“Four.”

“Please!” Snot and tears streamed down the man’s face, oozing onto the front of his stained wife beater. Hood’s face scrunched in disgust.

“Three.”

“Hood, stop!” Nightwing urged. He sounded like he was running. “Don’t do this!”

“Thought I told you to stop listening. Two.”

“I don’t know anything!”

The roof access door slammed open and Nightwing came sprinting out, barreling straight into him. The two of them tumbled across the gravel and Hood’s gun went flying.

“What the hell are you thinking!” Nightwing yelled, straddling Hood with his fists balled in the collar of his leather jacket.

“Get off!”

“Are you insane? How could you–” He stopped short as Hood’s fist came across his face and Hood used to momentum to break free and jump to his feet.

He looked around at the empty roof before running to the fire escape in time to watch the man drop into the alley and disappear around another corner.

Roaring a curse, Hood pulled off his helmet and threw it into the gravel as Nightwing got up slowly, a steady trickle of blood streaming from his nose and dripping off his chin.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “We’ll find him. We’ve already got eyes on all his usual haunts. Red Robin’s got his phone–” Nightwing let the rest of his sentence die as he took in Hood’s glare. They sized each other up for a while, the silence between them heavy and dark.

“That’s it?” Hood clarified. “That’s all you have to say?”

“I said I was sorry. What more do you want?”

“How about a damn explanation?”

“It was a miscalculation.”

“A miscalculation?” Hood laughed mirthlessly. “Really? Do you ever actually listen to the words that come out of your mouth?”

“What are you going for here exactly? A handwritten letter?”

“I want you to say it.” Hood started towards him slowly.

Nightwing held his ground, arms crossed. “Say what.”

“That real reason you came up here. It’s because you still don’t trust me. None of you do.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then what the hell was that?” Hood demanded, throwing his arm wide. They were just a few feet apart now, and the wind had started to pick up again, whipping his jacket and Nightwing’s hair around as it carried their voices out over the city.

“I heard what was going on and I thought–”

“ _I know what you thought.”_

“Can you blame me?” Finally Nightwing’s forced calm cracked; his voice rose to meet Jason’s, blood smeared across his mouth and cheek from where he’d rubbed his hand. “You said it yourself. You’re not one of us. A ‘free agent’ is what you called it, right?”

“Batman tackle you a lot while you were on your own, did he?”

“No. Then again, my ‘free agency’ didn’t rack up a body account. I was on my own, but we were still on the same side. We still had the same core beliefs. You– I don’t even think _you_ know whose side you’re on half the time. You’re just in this for yourself.”

Hood took that square in the face. He swallowed before saying, “Just tell me this: If it really came down to it, everything on the line. Would you trust me?”

Nightwing glared at him for a moment before looking away, mouth in a hard line.

Hood scoffed and stooped to pick his helmet up off the ground. He searched for something to say, but came up empty, which was for the best, since his throat suddenly felt like a vice.

He slipped on the helmet and vaulted over the side of the roof onto the fire escape, swinging and jumping to skip levels on his way down. He lingered for a second at the ground level and glanced up at the roof, half-expecting to see Nightwing calling after him, or at least peering down.

He saw nothing.

He left.

____________

“You’re kidding, right?”

“That depends.”

“On?” There was no inflection in Dick’s voice as he blinked, eyebrow cocked, fingers resting over his laptop keyboard.

“Is it funny?” Tim prodded.

They were in the den at the manor and Tim was wearing a cheap Robin Boy Wonder costume with the tag still dangling off the mask. It was the original design complete with the elf shoes and green scaly underwear – thankfully pulled over compression shorts – and just looking at it dredged up incredibly awkward memories that Dick had spent many long years desperately trying to forget.

It was hard, though, since niche costume shops and super fans still dragged it back into the light every. Single. Year. Plus, no matter how much Dick begged, he still hadn’t been able to convince Bruce to get rid of the one he kept on display in the Cave.

It was like being caught in a never-ending loop of awkward middle school photos, except these photos included pointy shoes and shiny underwear.

“Halloween isn’t for another week,” Dick noted, ignoring the question. “And you’re not wearing that.”

“Why not? It’s funny!”

“It’s not.” It really was, but there was no way Dick was going to give Tim that satisfaction.

“I think it is,” Stephanie chimed from the couch she was stretched out on, her phone held over her face. “It’s like nostalgic and ironic at the same time. Ten outta ten costume, Tim.”

Tim beamed at her then tugged uncomfortably at the waistband of the tights. “So, did you design this or did Bruce? No judgment, but I do have some questions.”

Dick pursed his lips, trying to decide how best to launch himself from the chair and over the coffee table to get him in a headlock before the younger boy could escape. Tim was fast, but Dick’s legs were longer. He shifted his weight forward in his seat, closing his laptop and setting it aside.

As if sensing the looming threat, Tim circled behind Stephanie’s couch.

“You got a problem with the classics?” Dick asked.

“Let’s just say I’m glad mine had pants,” Tim hedged, then ducked as Dick, without warning, flung a book from the shelf at him.

“I second that.” Damian was flat on the carpet with a spread of pencils and kneaded erasers around an open sketchbook. His hands were black with charcoal and graphite, and he’d been quiet for so long Dick had forgotten he was even there. He nudged the boy’s ribs playfully with his socked foot. Damian swatted him away.

Stephanie let her phone plop onto her stomach. “Okay, but you all have to admit that I had the nicest Robin suit by, like, a mile.”

Tim snorted, his chin propped on his arms folded along the back of the couch. She frowned up at him. “Is there a problem?”

“Only the fact that your suit was basically just a carbon copy of mine. No originality. No flavor.”

“You’re both wrong,” Damian said, brushing eraser shavings off his paper. “Clearly my suit is the superior model. The boots and gloves cover most of my legs and forearms, which provides added defenses for close range combat. And the hood decreases light interference and increases anonymity. It also looks cooler.”

“Um, hello,” Dick said. “You do realize I’m the reason you guys didn’t end up running around those freezing rooftops in tidy-whities. I was the original mastermind behind the pants look. You all should be thanking–”

“Bruce!” Stephanie shouted, sitting up. The entire room turned to where Bruce had stopped in the doorway, a protein bar halfway to his mouth and Cassandra at his side. He scanned the room with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, and Dick snickered as Tim crouched a bit lower behind the couch to hide his costume.

“Tell these jerks my Robin suit was the best one!” Stephanie demanded.

Damian threw a pillow at her head, and she deflected it towards Tim.

“Hey!” Tim complained, throwing it back down on her.

Then chaos. The room erupted in shouts and flying cushions. Bruce glanced at Cass and they shared an entire, wordless exchange before backing out and walking away.

After a few near-catastrophes involving three lamps, a vase, Dick’s laptop, and the TV, the sudden battle dissolved into breathless laughter.

“Okay, but seriously,” Dick said. “You’re not really wearing that to the party, are you?”

“Why not?” Tim asked, pulling off the mask.

“It just seems like an unnecessary risk. I mean, _Robin_? Really?”

“Ugh, you sound more and more like him every day.” Tim hopped over the back of the sofa, his butt landing directly on Stephanie’s stomach.

“Ow! Get off!” she shouted, shoving him so that he slid onto the floor, unbothered. He tilted his head back against the side of her leg, and as if by instinct, her fingers made their way into his hair as she returned her gaze to her phone.

“He does have a point, you know,” Steph noted. “You gotta loosen up or you’re gonna end up living alone under a mansion when you’re 40.”

Dick sighed and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He knew he was being way too uptight, and he could already hear Babs’ mocking rebuke: _Will you just relax and have fun?_ It would by all means be hypocritical coming from one of the biggest workaholics he knew – a title that was impressive to achieve in his circle – but she’d be right anyways. She usually was.

“So, what about the rest of you?” Dick finally asked, dropping his hand and trying to inject some levity into his voice. “What are you all going as?”

Stephanie and Tim grinned at each other; even Damian’s tight lips twitched into a smirk.

“Well, the thing is we kind of have a theme,” Tim began. “I’m Robin. First gen, obviously. Steph’s–”

“Red Robin,” she finished, grinning as she ruffled Tim’s hair a little harder. He leaned out of reach, grabbing her wrist and settling her hand back on his head.

“And I will be Father,” Damian announced. Dick couldn’t help but note the way his chin tipped a bit higher as he said it.

“Cass is gonna be Hood," Tim explained, "and Jason was _supposed_ to be Black Bat, but he’s been MIA.”

Dick’s jaw tensed. None of them had heard from Jason in nearly a week. Not since their chat on the roof. No comms, no texts, not even a patrol sighting.

Dick had considered trying to reach out, maybe swinging by some of Jason’s safehouses in the city, but he wasn’t in the mood for a fight, and he knew that’s what it would almost certainly be. Besides, he wasn’t exactly sure what he would say even if they did see each other.

It had hurt, but he had meant every word of what he’d said. Hadn’t he…?

“He wouldn’t have done it anyway,” Stephanie said.

“He might’ve,” Tim grumbled, though there was no real conviction there.

“Not a chance.”

“Does Bruce know about this?” Dick asked.

“He thought was funny,” Tim said with a victorious grin.

Dick didn’t want to believe that, but it wasn’t hard for him to imagine Bruce smirking mischievously at the irony of it all.

“Okay,” he sighed. “So, what am I wearing to this thing?”


	3. The Things We Were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason remembers the way things used to be and considers what, if anything, can change. Maybe they can't. Maybe they shouldn't.
> 
> But maybe he wants them to, anyway.

Jason hated Halloween.

It didn’t used to be that way. There was a period, a lifetime ago, when he loved trick or treating.

Even now, he could still feel the bulky zombie teeth in his mouth, could hear the sound of miniature candies rattling around a plastic pumpkin bucket. Years of practice covering Bruce’s own bruises and scars had turned the older man into a savant with a palette and latex, and Jason could still picture the depths of Bruce’s eyes as he hovered practically nose to nose with the younger boy, skillfully crafting gruesome wounds and sutures across his face.

Back then, Halloween had been one of the few times a year when Jason and Bruce got to dress up for fun rather than battle or ritzy, soul-sucking fundraisers. It was a day when blades were made of plastic and Styrofoam rather than steel, and the things that lurked in the shadows were not deadly adversaries but friends and neighbors. A time when they moved with their feet planted firmly on the ground instead of along rooftops or soaring through the air, and the coming of night did not bring with it danger or violence.

On Halloween, blood tasted like food coloring and corn syrup. The bruises on Bruce’s face were bright and fake, and his scowl, usually menacing, was little more than a poorly disguised grin.

“No, you gotta be _scary_!” Jason had complained once after glancing up to find a wide smile on Bruce’s blotchy green face.

And Bruce had laughed, a full-throated sound from deep in his chest before promising, “Okay, okay, I’ll try.”

But that was then, and dwelling on those times now was an exercise in masochism.

These days, Halloween was easier to get through from inside a bar or holed up in his apartment. While miniature witches and cartoon characters trickled into the streets, he intended to spend the night plastered, eating too much food, watching mind-numbing TV, and praying the “No Candy” sign on his door would be enough to deter any would-be sugar gremlins.

As he kicked up his feet in nothing but his boxers and started scrolling through a selection of movies on the TV, though, he couldn’t quite manage to sink into the blissful detachment he so desperately craved. He shifted on the couch and glared at a movie synopsis without taking in any of the words there, a growing sense of frustration twisting through him.

It had already been two weeks and still his stomach was in knots, and he found himself swinging wildly from fits of aimless rage to bouts of queasy silence as Dick’s words reverberated through his head. Or rather, not his words, but his quiet.

And Jason hated himself for it because hadn’t he wanted this all along? To be free from the shadow of the bat? To assert himself as his own being with his own code? Hadn’t he personally waged war against them; wanted them dead?

How stupid to think a year and change of tenuous comradery might change any of that, might undo years of animus and at times outright violence between them.

They were right to keep him at arm’s length and expect him to be exactly what he had shown himself to be – a killer. It didn’t matter that it was because of them – because of Bruce’s inane code – that he hadn’t killed anyone in almost two years. Some things could not be undone. If anyone understood that, it ought to be him.

He glanced towards the linen closet in the hall where a duffel bag was crammed behind a couple towels and bed sheets. Inside was the new body armor he’d had Harper help him create. It was almost identical to what he usually wore, except this edition featured a brilliant red bat insignia across the chest. He’d been planning to start wearing soon.

He scoffed at himself.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. And maybe he wasn’t. But damn, if this didn’t still suck.

A ringtone went off, and Jason hopped up and made his way to the drawer in his kitchen where he kept his burners. He fumbled around before finding the dinky flip phone with a new message that simply said:

_He’s out._

Jason sprinted into his room and emerged again in his Red Hood gear – the classic all black version – leaving a box of takeout and a scrolling screensaver on his TV as he slipped out the door.

The thick tires of his bike squealed against the asphalt as he tore around corners and down the still-sleeping streets of Gotham. Slowly, the store fronts, overpriced apartments, and new construction crumbled to ruins around him. Windows were replaced with graffitied plywood, buildings stood gaping and abandoned, some blackened with decades-old fire damage, others missing all together, just piles of rubble and garbage and overgrown weeds in empty spaces that reminded Jason of missing teeth. Even with the harvest moon drenching the city in pale light, these few blocks remained in shadow as if some invisible force hung overhead, blocking out the light.

Hood was headed for The Yards, a rougher part of town that reminded him of his old stomping grounds in Crime Alley. There were no trick or treaters out here. The few folks that walked the streets were mostly junkies and barflies and scantily clad girls. They noted him and offered nods of acknowledgement, unafraid.

He’d spent enough time in these parts now, that people who might typically shy away from cops knew that as long as they weren’t hurting anybody, he wasn’t going to bother them. It was a point of pride for him, that his reputation preceded him in that way; it made it easier for him to help the people who needed it most.

He pulled up in front of a defunct pizza shop and sauntered in through the boarded-up door, past the grimy tables and yawning brick oven, through the kitchen, and out the back door to the small alcove behind the restaurant lined with dumpsters and buzzing with the sounds of rodents and pests scurrying through trash.

A kid was sitting with his back against one of the dumpsters, a collection of glass bottles beside him. On the brick wall opposite him, Hood noted splatter stains over a glittering pile of broken glass. As if on cue, the kid picked up a bottle and flung it into the wall where it exploded in a spray of old beer and golden-brown shards.

Hood slipped off his helmet and tucked it under his arm so that he was only in his domino. A lot of the kids around here preferred when he stayed in the helmet. Some thought it was cool, but others, he could tell, found him easier to talk to that way. It was the eyes, he thought. There were certain things that were easier to admit aloud when you weren’t looking someone in the eyes.

This kid, though, was not one of them.

“Yo,” Hood said, walking over to slide down the side of the dumpster so that they were sitting side by side. Not touching, but close enough that a shift in weight, an adjusted leg could easily result in contact. This was another thing that not all kids around here liked – the physical closeness.

“Hey.” The boy didn’t look at him right away, instead waving his fingers over the bottles as he hunted for the next one to throw. He landed on a retro Coke and weighed the thick glass in his scrawny hands.

Hood watched him chuck it at the wall and grin at the explosion before asking, “How are things with you?”

Fry – that was what everyone called the kid around here; Hood had no idea why – shrugged, and his grin faded. Not into a frown, but a careful absence of expression. An absence that managed to say _I’m fine_ and _Please ask me what’s wrong_ and _Please help_ all at once. It was the kind of look that Hood recognized too well; one he’d practiced in a mirror on more than one occasion when he was a kid, hoping someone would see it and understand.

They never did.

“Henry’s back,” Fry answered.

Hood already knew this. He had little informants all over this area; it was what the text had been about. But still he said, “Already? What about the trial?”

“He got bail.” Fry toyed with the neck of a new bottle, still not looking Hood in the eyes.

“And?”

Fry shrugged again, and Hood inwardly cursed the whole goddamn police department. It was a song he’d heard too many times before. Scumbag gets put away, makes bail, goes straight home, takes it out on the family, GCPD is nowhere to be found.

Stopping bank robbers and metas was easy. Those guys were loud and when they went away, they went away for a while. But this stuff, the villains who masqueraded as family men, as loving fathers and husbands – those were the real monsters. The masks they wore were more effective than any cowl or secret identity Hood had ever seen.

And it seemed that no matter how much time he spent talking with the kids in this area, working with them, trying clumsily to help them understand what to expect from social services and offering them numbers to some of his burners, he still felt like he wasn’t doing enough. There weren’t enough hours in the day, there wasn’t enough of _him_ to singlehandedly pick up the pieces where the entire system was letting these kids – these families – down.

And God was it letting them down.

He wanted to get up right then. Every instinct in his body was screaming for justice, for revenge, and he wanted to go straight to Fry’s place and then to the GCPD to tell them to do their damn jobs and where they could find Henry’s body.

And maybe he should do that. It would be easier and more effective than anything the cops would do, and he felt now like he suddenly didn’t have anything to prove anymore. He was who he was, and if that made him the bad guy then so be it. A small price to pay in the grand scheme if that’s what it took to get things done.

As the rage swelled and Hood got ready to stand, he felt a small hand wrap around his. He looked, but Fry was staring away, his cheeks glistening in the orange glow from the light mounted above them on the brick wall.

And just like that, all of his restless fury melted into something dull and simmering, and Hood took a breath and tilted his head back against the grimy dumpster. “I’m sorry,” he sighed.

Fry shrugged again and sniffled. “What are you doing here anyway?” he asked, letting go of Hood’s hand to wipe his face.

“I can’t just come hang out with the coolest kid I know?”

Fry offered a shaky laugh. “Wanna try one?” He offered another Coke bottle and Hood took it.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he sent the bottle careening into the wall. Something about the motion reminded him of throwing a batarang – like muscle memory.

“Whoa!” Fry shouted. “That was a good one! Do it again!”

Fry shoved another bottle at Hood, and Hood chuckled as he launched it at the wall, the sharp crash mixing with the Fry’s delighted whoops.

And though Fry was now openly elated, there was still something in his face, a deep, unwavering kind of hurt.

It was the kind of pain that Hood knew would stay with the kid even if he managed to set Fry up with the best family in the best city tonight. Even if Hood made sure nothing bad ever happened to him again for the rest of his life, that wounded shadow would cling there, if only barely.

It was the mark of a kid who had experienced too much too soon, during those formative years. A kind of broken that could not be fixed, but instead was lived with, grown into, like a birthmark or a childhood scar.

It wasn’t the debilitating kind. He’d seen those kids too, the ones who were already so far gone, the scars so numerous and deep that it would take a miracle to reach them. Fry wasn’t there yet, and Hood just hoped he’d be able to help before he got there.

“So, no trick or treating, huh?” Hood asked. “What? Too good for candy or something?”

“Don’t have a costume. My mom said she would make me one but then…” His voice trailed off and he shrugged again.

Hood stared at him for a while then popped up, saying, “Wait right there,” before jogging back through the restaurant. He returned holding a leather jacket. This one was more casual than the one he wore on patrols; it lacked the sewn-in armor and additional slots for concealed weapons, but it matched his Red Hood jacket close enough.

“Stand up,” he said, and Fry obeyed, eyes wide. “Turn around.”

Fry turned and Hood slipped the jacket onto Fry’s small frame. It dangled off of him like a cloak and must have been fairly heavy judging by the slouch in Fry’s shoulders, but when he turned back around, he was beaming.

“Yeah,” Hood said, smiling and looking him up and down. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Oh–” He reached into his own jacket and pulled out a spare domino. “Put this on.”

Fry put it on, and the way his smile grew to encompass his entire face was almost cartoonish.

“Nice,” Hood said with a grin.

“I’m the Red Hood…?” he whispered. Then he looked up into Hood’s eyes. “I’m you?”

“Looks like it.” Hood breathed through the ache in his chest that made him want to change his mind and urge Fry to be somebody – _anybody_ – else. A voice in his head moaned:

_You don’t want to be me._

“So now for candy,” Hood continued. “I’m guessing there’s not much around here to work with.”

Fry shook his head.

“If you want, I can take you to one of the rich neighborhoods where they give out the good stuff. I’m talking king-sized name brands.”

“You’ll let me ride on your motorcycle?” Fry’s voice edged toward an eager shriek.

“Yeah, long as you promise not to make that sound again,” Hood laughed. “And that you won’t fall off,” he added.

Fry nodded vigorously as Hood clapped him on the back and steered him back through the kitchen saying, “Then let’s blow this joint.”

After they’d gotten on the bike and Fry had securely wrapped his arms around Hood’s mid-section, he asked, “Um, Hood…?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you… walk with me, too?”

Hood went still for a moment. His grip tightened on the handlebars as he turned around to smile, saying, “Well, duh. You think I’m gonna let you get _all_ that candy to yourself?”

And Fry smiled, squeezing Hood’s torso even tighter and burying his face in the young man’s back as they roared down the street – slower, of course, than usual.


	4. The Things We Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The BatFam goes to a party and Dick learns that even the suburbs of Gotham aren't without their monsters. 
> 
> Especially on Halloween.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” Dick asked, studying himself in the full-length mirror hanging on his closet door.

“I really am,” Barbara giggled. She’d been cracking up for nearly five minutes straight, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks as her abdomen ached. “Hold your phone up higher. And do another spin.”

“Babs,” he whined, lifting his phone to give her a better view.

“Please?” She let her voice got all plaintive and cute the way she knew would turn Dick into putty in her hands. It was a power she had discovered long ago, and one she wielded with reckless abandon.

Dick obeyed, the silky cape drifting around him as he came to a stop. He was in a replica of her old Batgirl uniform. Some knock-off Tim had scored in an online bidding war.

“You look great,” she said. The suit she used to wear hadn’t been quite so delicate. The overall gist was more or less accurate, but hers had been designed with combat in mind, everything layered and dense. The cape had been heavier, the boots not quite so rubbery and squeaky, and the colors much more muted – it would be hard to sneak up on anyone with bright neon yellows and purples announcing your presence from a mile away.

Even so, looking at the suit now, she could almost feel the wind rushing past her face; could feel her stomach flip in the sweeping arc from one building to the next.

For a long time, she hadn’t been able to remember those days without a bitter knot twisting in her gut. She was glad now to be able to look back fondly.

“You know, I really do,” Dick agreed, twisting to show off his butt in the thin spandex. “But I’ve seen better.” He flashed a rakish grin, and she laughed.

“You sure you can’t make an appearance tonight?” he asked.

“Nah. I’m still troubleshooting some bugs from the last system update. Probably take a while.”

Dick sighed. “Won’t be as fun without you there.”

“You bet your ass.”

He barked a laugh as he walked away from the mirror and set his phone down. Now the entire screen was black as she listened to him talk and move around his room.

“Just so you know,” he said, opening and closing drawers. “There’s probably gonna be like a ton of girls there. Can’t make any promises if I meet a nice lady Nightwing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grinned. “See you later, Batboy.”

She ended the call before he could protest the name and smiled to herself, letting the warmth of the conversation linger in the air a moment longer before turning her attention to her computer.

____________

The party was in one of the wealthy suburbs just outside of the city and the houses were pretty big. Not Wayne Manor big, but large enough to comfortably host well over a hundred people. It was one of those sprawling parties that took up every inch of the house and the back yard and managed to also bleed out into the street.

In every direction people were gyrating and laughing. There was no way most of them even knew whose house this was, but no one seemed too concerned about that. The host certainly wasn’t. Dick had seen him drunkenly carving a pumpkin by the pool and had quietly switched the steak knife out with a butter knife before the guy’s headless horseman costume became a lot more convincing.

Now Dick was standing on the deck, watching the fire pit where Steph, Tim, and Damian were among the crowd roasting marshmallows. Cass was leaning against Steph’s shoulder, her arms wrapped around her knees. Dick couldn’t see her expression through the papier mache Red Hood mask, but he could tell by her languid body language that she was having a good time.

Seeing them in each other’s uniforms was disorienting, like looking at a green sky or eating hot ice cream. Not necessarily bad, just _off_. But the anxiety he’d felt about the risk to their identities had died when he’d picked them up from the manor and saw them up close.

They looked more like pajamas than anything else, and they definitely wouldn’t draw any more attention than a bedsheet ghost or a grim reaper. Plus, their open enthusiasm for the whole thing made them all seem that much younger and unassuming. Just a bunch of young people excited about Halloween. It was honestly pretty fun to watch, especially coming from kids who were so often called upon to leave their more childish impulses at the door.

He put his phone to his ear. “Babs?”

“Batboy!” There was a smile in her voice. “Sounds like you’re having fun.”

She must have been talking about the music. It was coming from every direction. His bones rattled with each chord and was once again reminded of how freaking old he was getting. When had that happened?

“It’s a riot,” he said, dodging a fairy as she stumbled toward him with a plate piled high with nachos. Both she and the nachos went over the railing and the sound of the impact below hit him with a pang of guilt for not just stopping her. When he peeked down, she was laughing from the center of a bush. Four other fairies leaned over the side to laugh and throw pretzels at her.

“Uneventful?”

“So far.” He squinted for a second at Damian who was now standing, showing a Power Ranger a batarang. He nearly bolted across the yard until he noted the way it caught the light of the fire. Dick was fairly certain it was either plastic or cardboard. Not real. At least, he hoped not.

Cass and Stephanie had gotten up and slipped past him through the French doors and into the kitchen. Tim was still sitting by the fire, clumsily navigating a conversation with a witch who was openly flirting with him. He tossed a pleading look to Dick, who just smiled and waved, savoring every second of it.

“I think Tim has a new girlfriend,” he added.

“Fun. How’s Steph handling it?”

He glanced back into the house. She and Cass were rifling through a massive trash bag of candy that had been left on a counter, picking out all the king-sized bars and grinning ravenously. The many pockets in Cass’s brown leather jacket – Dick wasn’t sure if Jason had loaned it or if she’d commandeered it – were already full to bursting.

“Inconsolable.”

“Poor girl.” Babs sounded distracted, keys clacking as she muttered to herself.

“What’re you up to?”

“I keep getting the same system error, but I can’t figure out if it’s an issue with the hardware or software. I’ve run like ten diagnostic protocols already and I’ve been staring at the same wall of code for like five hours. I’m probably gonna end up just rebooting the whole thing. Comms’ll be down for a couple hours. Or days the way this is going.”

One finger jammed into his free ear, Dick wandered down the steps and around toward the front of the house in search of a respite from the chaos. He motioned to Damian, signaling that he was on a call, and Damian, in his oversized Batman cowl, nodded.

It wasn’t until Dick was a few houses away that the music and chatter became more of a muted throb than an overwhelming assault.

“What’s B up to?” he asked in a lull, his pace slowing.

“Alfred got him to hang around the manor and help give out candy for a while. I think he guilted him with the turmeric incident.”

Dick laughed then he went quiet for a moment, considering, before asking, “And Jason?”

“Nothing. Is it just me or does something seem off with him? I mean, I know he’s not the most communicative guy in the world but, I don’t know.”

Dick sighed. “It’s compli–” He fell silent. At the end of the block there was a guy in a wolf mask standing under a streetlight just… staring at him.

Dick glanced over his shoulder then back at the man.

“Dick?” Barbara asked.

He didn’t respond. A sense of foreboding had washed over him; a crackling thrum in the air that set all of the hairs on his body on end.

Instinctively, he found himself taking stock of his surroundings. He already knew exactly how many steps it would take to close the distance between them, how long it would take for him to get back to the party if he needed to.

He knew how he could use the string lights on the porch closest to him as a weapon or a restraint. How he could tear his Velcro cape from his own shoulders and get it around the man’s face and throat or disarm him since it looked like he was holding something – a pipe? There was a garden gnome in the yard beside him with a hat that looked sharp enough to do some damage if it came to that.

The man was big. Probably had a foot and eighty pounds on Dick.

Dick pushed his cowl back from his face.

The man turned and lumbered away.

Dick exhaled.

“Dick.” Barbara’s voice had slipped past playful curiosity. She sounded about two seconds away from alerting the cavalry.

“I’m here.”

“Geez. What just happened?”

Dick watched the disappear around the corner. “I don’t know. There was just some guy. He was staring at me, I think.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Not likely.”

“Maybe he just really likes Batgirl,” she teased.

Dick let out a breathy laugh, but the man had set him on edge and now he needed to run it off.

“Think I’m gonna call it on this party,” he said. “I need to unwind.”

“Most people do that sort of thing at parties.”

“And since when have I ever been like ‘most people?’”

Babs laughed and Dick felt his chest warm.

“You going home or going out?” she asked.

“I think we both know the answer to that,” he said, grinning as he turned back toward the party.

“Where would this city be with you, Batboy?” she sighed airily.

Dick chuckled despite himself. “Talk to you in a few,” he said, then hung up and opened a group message with Steph, Cass, Damian, and Tim.

_Leaving early. Be back in a few hours to pick you up._

Tim’s message came a few seconds later. _Don’t worry about it. We’ll just hot wire a car here._

 _You can’t just steal a car._ Dick.

 _It’s not theft if we return the vehicle._ Damian.

 _Everybody is wasted anyway_ , Stephanie said. _We’d be doing this city a favor._

Cass just sent a car emoji, a beer, and an emoji of a girl making an X with her arms.

 _Exactly,_ Steph responded.

Dick pursed his lips and decided to roll the dice on whether or not they were joking. If they weren’t, he hoped they’d at least return the car before it was missed.

He was standing by his own car now, staring at the screen as he mind went to other things. Babs had sounded stressed, so already he was set on stopping by her place. Maybe he could bring her some of the candy he'd managed to snag throughout the night. He could swing by the Manor for his Nightwing suit and then hit Barbara’s place before going on patrol.

Just the thought made him smile, but there was something else still nagging at him. He needed to find Jason. He still had no idea what he wanted to say, but he couldn’t leave things the way they were.

As he sorted out his plans for the evening, his screen went black. And only then, in the dark reflection of the glass, did he see the wolf mask peering over his shoulder.

And in a flash Dick was turning, ducking, his fist clenched.

And then he was falling, and the left side of his head was an explosion of white, searing pain, and suddenly he was staring at boots, one half of his face hot and wet and throbbing, the other cold against the sidewalk.

He heard himself dragging in short, ragged breaths, his teeth gritted as he ordered his body to _move_. But his limbs remained where they were, heavy and obstinate. His neck ached as he tilted his face up to look his attacker in the eye, his cheek scraping against the sidewalk.

Squinting into the light of the streetlamp, Dick’s eyes focused just in time to watch the man bring the pipe down again, fast and hard.

And Dick heard the sickening wet crack of bone yielding to metal.

And then nothing.


	5. The Things We Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason gets a visitor. It doesn't go well.

Jason tumbled through his apartment window just as the sun was starting to rise. What he’d meant to be a quick recon mission had turned into an all-out battle royale and now his whole body ached for sleep and painkillers as he shed his clothes on his way to his bedroom, leaving a trail of muddy gear in his wake.

As soon as his legs hit his bed, he let himself fall forward across it. And even though the rest of his place was slowly flooding with light, his room was still mercifully dim and cool. He nudged the door closed with the tip of his toe, grateful once again for his blackout curtains as he blocked out the light from the hall, plunging the room further into the dark.

Jason didn’t remember falling asleep, but when he finally woke up it was with a jolt, a sudden snapping open of his eyes while the rest of him remained perfectly still.

Something was wrong.

He could sense it in the air, could feel it like a prickling along the back of his neck. Without making a sound, his hand located the gun in the top drawer of his nightstand, and he moved across the room to press himself into the wall by the door.

He listened.

If he hadn’t been who he was, he might not have heard it at all – the traffic outside was noisier than whoever had broken into his apartment. But he was who he was and he did hear it, gentle footsteps moving around his living room and kitchen.

He waited for the telltale sounds of theft – appliances being shuffled, drawers opening and shutting – but there was none of that. Only quiet movements, low murmuring. Finally the footsteps grew more pronounced as they headed down the hall and paused just outside his door.

The knob twisted carefully, slowly, and Jason cocked his gun. From where he was pressed into the corner, the opening door shielded him from view as the intruder stepped in and looked around, and before they could fully turn his way, Jason had a gun pressed into their back through the fabric of a black cape.

“Replacement,” Jason said by way of greeting, his adrenaline ebbing significantly but not altogether.

“So you _are_ alive. Why aren’t you answering your phone?” Red demanded, turning around to face him as Jason set the gun aside.

Before Jason could even answer, Red was talking to someone else, a finger to his ear. “No. He isn’t here. But I got Jason.”

Pause.

“I really don’t think–” Red Robin paused again, looking pained. “All right. No, I know. I _know._ ” He returned his focus to Jason.

“Dick’s missing,” he explained. “It’s been three days.”

“He’s a big boy. Just because he missed family brunch once or twice doesn’t mean–”

Red Robin reached into his belt and tossed him a plastic bag. “Found it at the bottom of a storm drain. His car was abandoned, too.”

Inside the bag was Dick’s cell phone, caked in grime and smashed.

“Shit,” Jason breathed. Tossing the phone back, he slipped past Red and into the hall where his gear was still strewn haphazardly across the floor. “You trace his suit?”

“He’s not wearing it. And the comm system’s been on and off so we haven’t been able to make contact. By now he could be out of range or–” Red broke off whatever he was about to say. “Or something else.”

“Shit,” Jason said again, hopping into his pants. It was only when he was securing his belt that he noticed Red Robin fidgeting in the doorway. “You gotta piss or something?”

The younger boy stopped shifting. “Have you… heard from him?”

“Golden Boy? Yeah, we got cocktails on Tuesday.”

Red blinked at him.

“I’m kidding.” Jason tugged his gloves on and flexed his fingers a bit before finally sliding on his helmet. He was already straddling the windowsill, halfway out when he noticed Red Robin wasn’t following. “You coming or what?”

The younger boy looked physically ill now. Jason could practically hear his heart racing from across the room.

He waited.

“Where were you Halloween night?” Red asked.

Jason sighed. “Is this about that stupid party? Listen I’m sorry if I ruined your ‘theme’ or whatever but there was no way in hell I was ever gonna–”

“It’s not. It’s not about that.”

“Then why do you care where I was?”

The kid’s narrow shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath. “We’ve got you on surveillance a few blocks from where the party was that night. Around the same time Dick left. What were you doing out there?”

Jason stared, his face paling behind the helmet as the realization hit him, churned in his stomach like something rotten.

He was a suspect.

Of course, he was a suspect.

“Look,” Red began as if sensing the change in the air. “I’m just– ever since that thing happened between you two–”

“What ‘thing?’” Jason asked, pulling his leg back inside and standing. He could see now that Red Robin hadn’t come here for backup. This was an interrogation. He tugged off his helmet and tossed it onto the couch.

“I have no idea because Dick wouldn’t say anything. But it’s obvious something happened. And I just… have a few questions.”

“Is this you asking or the bat?”

“Does it make a difference?”

Yes.

“Nope.” Jason shrugged off his jacket, grateful for the distraction as a thousand different emotions clashed and swirled through him. His face felt hot, and there was a piercing ache in the center of his chest; if he hadn’t known any better, he could’ve sworn he was bleeding under his armor.

If Dick’s comments had been the blade, surely this was the twisting of the knife.

“I was trick or treating with a kid from The Yards,” he explained at last.

Red looked supremely unimpressed. “I’m being serious, Jason.”

“So am I.”

Jason looked him dead in the eyes, and whatever Red saw in the older boy’s face must have been confirmation enough, because finally he sighed, his shoulders sagging.

“I’m sorry,” Red offered miserably. “I told them it was stupid to even ask, but they thought–”

“I know what they–” Jason cut himself off before he started shouting. He sighed. “I know. Just go.”

Red looked like he was about to say something, then paused, his eyes flicking away. “Copy that,” he said, presumably to someone over the comm.

Jason stepped aside as the kid made his way to the window.

With a boot perched on the sill, Red Robin turned and said, “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t – I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

When Jason offered him nothing in return, Red Robin nodded as if understanding, and leapt into the night.

Jason shut the window.

____________

Red Robin cursed, peering into a grimy warehouse. Another dead end. How many freaking abandoned buildings could one city possibly have?

“He’s not here,” he said, flipping up from the window and onto the roof to scan the tops of the surrounding buildings. “Next location.”

“Okay,” Oracle said. “Just give me–”

“West Side Heights are a no-go,” Spoiler announced.

A moment later, Robin added, “The tenements on Ninth are empty, as well.”

“Huntington to Jefferson is clear.” Batman.

“Okay, okay just give me second!” Oracle shouted. Red flinched, his ear twinging as she added more calmly, “Let me think."

He could practically hear the gears in her mind working, could feel the tension crackling over the moments of silence that followed.

When Dick hadn’t come back to pick them up from the party, they hadn’t thought much of it. It wouldn’t have been wildly out of character for him to get caught up with something and lose track of time. And they’d been happy for the excuse to borrow a car to get home anyways.

Even in the days that followed, they’d all had different assumptions about what might have been going on with him. Maybe he was undercover somewhere. Maybe he’d gone radio silent for an especially challenging case. All of these things had happened before. Even so, Red Robin could see now that they – that _he_ – should have been more alert.

Three days. It had taken him three days to notice that something was wrong.

He glanced eastward. A faint gold had begun to bleed into the clouds and dust the rooftops. Soon they’d have to stop, or at least switch to more inconspicuous means of searching. He tried not to think about all the statistics involving missing persons and the importance of the first few hours. How much time they had already lost.

Not lost. Wasted.

But now that they were actively looking, somehow it felt like things were still getting worse.

He groaned, bracing his hands on his knees as his anxiety and frustration mingled bitterly with fresh guilt. He’d expected the conversation with Jason to be awkward; he hadn’t expected it to be so… sad.

The look on Jason’s face…

“Oracle,” Batman said at last, a ripple of warning in his baritone that snapped Red Robin upright. Wallowing would have to wait.

Right now, he needed to focus.

“I know,” Oracle answered. “Red, you take the old abbey on Acreage. Spoiler, there’s an office building under construction on–”

“H-hello…?” a quavering voice interjected.

Red froze, his arm outstretched with his grapple. No one responded, and the silence that followed was so complete he almost thought his comm had shut off.

“Ora..cle?”

“ _Dick?_ ” she nearly shouted. “Oh my– where are you? Are you okay?”

“I… don’t know.” Dick’s voice was hollow, almost distracted.

“Wait,” Dick said a little firmer. “Historical district. I don’t know wh–” Then he hacked and coughed, and there was the distinct sound of something splattering onto a floor.

Red Robin was already swinging through the air towards the historical district when Oracle asked, “Are you hurt?”

“I­–”

A nearby explosion sent a shockwave through the air, throwing off the arc of Red Robin’s swing and sending him careening into the side of a building. “Agh!”

He retracted the grapple, letting it pull him up the rest of the way until he was able to crawl over the lip of the roof and look around.

The bottom floor of an apartment building down the street was engulfed in flames. A moment later, another explosion went off several blocks away. And another after that, distant booms and plumes of fiery smoke billowing into the early morning sky.

“What’s going on?” Red Robin asked, sprinting towards the building closest to him. “Are you guys seeing this?”


	6. The Things We Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a race against the clock.

“I’m getting three– no, four separate explosions across the city,” Oracle said, watching red blips appear across her screen as chatter from her police scanner filled the room.

She listened for a second as more info rolled in from law enforcement. “It’s Firefly.”

“Perfect timing,” Spoiler grumbled.

“Not our priority,” Oracle decided. “Only stop if you see someone in immediate danger. Otherwise, we need everyone in the historical district looking for–”

“N-no,” Dick rasped. “You gotta… help them.”

“That’s what fire departments are for,” Robin countered.

“Oracle.” Dick sounded firm, or at least as firm as he was capable of sounding at the moment.

Oracle ground her teeth, staring at the many blips on the screen, all in fairly densely populated areas. It would take over half an hour for the fire department to respond to all of them, closer to an hour for reinforcements from other precincts to come help. And this was all assuming that Firefly didn’t have anything else planned for the night.

Dick was right. He usually was.

“Red, you assist at The Terrace. Batman, you take the quarry. Spoiler and Robin: the senior center at Fourth and Gerrard. Black Bat, Old Lansing Hotel.”

The group protested until Batman silenced them with a, “ _Go_.”

And Oracle watched and listened as the team scattered across the city. She kept the group line going through the speakers as she opened an individual channel with just her and Dick.

“You there?” she asked.

“Mm…”

“Where are you hurt? Head, punctures?” She already guessed by his general lethargy that he was concussed, but she needed to keep him talking, and the specifics would be helpful in figuring out what to expect when they finally got to him.

“Uh… I– yeah… Yeah.”

“Tell me more. Just tell me what hurts.” She kept her eyes glued to the map of the city and the scrolling transcription from the police scanner. Another blip appeared further from center city; the corresponding transcript was calling it a fire in an abandoned building.

“I…” Dick’s voice slurred and faded.

“Dick?”

No response.

“Dick, come on. Talk to me.”

Nothing.

“Dammit,” she muttered switching back to the group line. “Dick stopped responding. I need–”

“On it.”

It took Oracle a moment to recognize the voice. “Hood?”

_______________

The explosions started barely thirty minutes after Red Robin left, rattling Jason’s entire building. He sprinted from the living room back into his bedroom to get his comm just as Oracle was pinning the blasts on Firefly, and he was on his motorcycle rocketing towards The Terrace when she said Dick was unresponsive.

“Hood?” she asked.

“Just tell me where to go.”

He almost expected her to refuse – it would make sense if they genuinely considered him a person of interest in all of this – but instead she responded with, “Historical district. Is anyone else able to help Hood do a sweep? It’s a lot of ground to cover alone.”

Batman’s voice came through over the sound of something massive and metallic clattering near him. “I’m almost done here.”

“Won’t be for a while,” Red Robin called over the roar of a fire. “There’s a ton of people in here.”

“Same. The blast got like six houses. It’s a mess,” Spoiler panted.

“Soon,” Black Bat said.

“Understood. Hood, I’m gonna try to get you some more information. Stand by.”

“Roger.”

________________

Oracle again switched to just the line with Dick, hoping to minimize any possible interference.

“Dick?” she said. “ _Dick?_ ”

“M’yeah…?”

She exhaled, pushing stray hairs out of her face. “Stay awake, okay? You gotta stay awake.”

“I’m… I’m awake.”

“Good. Hood’s almost there,” she said, eyes flicking back to the monitor at the single dot speeding away from the heart of the city. “ETA five minutes.”

She wasn’t sure if this was true since once Jason got to there, he would still have the task of figuring out where exactly Dick was, but she figured it was an acceptable lie in the moment.

“Caref– ” He gagged and hacked; the sound made her chest ache.

“Dick?”

“Fire… Bombs…”

Fire?

Oracle’s eyes snapped to the red blip – the one at the abandoned building she’d ignored barely five minutes ago. It was smack in the middle of the historical district.

“Jesus Christ,” she breathed, blood draining from her face as she pulled up the location. It was at the McConnel House, a long-forgotten colonial home that had once been a tourist trap for history buffs. It looked like first responders had knocked it to the bottom of their priority list just like she had, because not a single fire engine was headed in that direction.

Then Oracle’s brain caught up to the second part of what he’d said. “There are bombs in there with you?” she echoed. “Why didn’t you–”

_Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Why’d you tell us to wait?_

“How many?” she finished.

There was a brief pause. “Six… crates… No. Eight.”

Oracle cursed. “All right, I’ll let the others know. Just hang in there all right? It’s gonna be okay.”

“’Kay…”

She switched back to the group channel. “The McConnel House. He’s at the McConnel House. It’s on fire and he said–”

Her voice hitched. She cleared her throat. “He said there are bombs in there with him.”

There was a chorus of horrified reactions and Oracle used the quick moment to mute herself and stifle a sob behind her hand.

When she came back on, all she said was, “Hood?”

“Yeah?”

“Hurry.”

_________________

Bombs. There were bombs.

Red Hood’s blood ran cold, his breaths shallowed as a voice in the back of his mind begged, _Not again._

He had no idea if the bombs were on a timer or if the plan was for the flames to set them off naturally. But even pushing his bike as hard as it could go, it would take him at least a few more minutes to get there. And he knew from personal experience that a few minutes was centuries in these situations. A few minutes meant life or death.

He might not get there in time.

He _had_ to get there in time.

Jason put a finger to the side of his helmet. “You there, Dick?”

“Uh-huh…”

Jesus. He sounded terrible. But hearing his voice at all right now felt like a small miracle.

“Good,” Hood said, forcing some semblance of levity into his voice. “Just making sure you’re not taking a beauty nap in there. You better be ready when I get there to spring you.”

“You… kidding? I’m packed and… everything.”

Hood laughed, buoyed somewhat by Dick’s ability to make jokes, even now. Part of him wondered if Dick was doing this for Hood’s sake the same way Hood was trying to keep things light for him.

It would be a very Golden Boy thing to do.

“This isn’t it,” Hood said, as much to Dick as to himself. “You know that, right? I’m getting you out of there.”

“Right… ‘cause of the…” – Dick coughed and groaned – “…nieces and nephews, right?”

At that, Hood found himself smiling in earnest. It was something they’d talked about months ago – a casual exchange in the Batcave after a run-in with Mr. Freeze left them both shivering beneath heated blankets as they waited for their core temperatures to get back within a safe range. The conversation had begun with whether or not Jason would ever adopt a puppy and somehow transformed into a broader discussion of the future.

_“I didn’t know you were interested in that kind of stuff,” Jason said through chattering teeth._

_“I don’t talk about it much.”_

_“So kids, wife, the whole thing?”_

_“Pretty much, yeah.” Even half-frozen, a faint blush came over Dick’s face, coloring his ears as he fought a small smile._

_“Hm.” Jason felt himself grinning._

_“What?”_

_“Nothing, it’s just– ‘Jason Jr.’ Kinda like the sound of that.”_

_“That’s not how names work.”_

“Damn right,” Hood agreed now, bringing himself back to the present. “You and O owe me some kids to corrupt. Who else is gonna teach Jason Jr. how to shoot a gun?”

Dick choked out a low laugh. “That’s not how… names work,” he said, echoing the earlier conversation.

“All right then. Just Jason.”

There was a short pause, and Hood felt a twinge of panic until finally Dick said, “Hood…”

And something about the tone in his voice, at once resigned and defeated, made Hood decide instantly that he did not want to hear the rest of that sentence. Not now or ever.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he broke in. “Two minutes.”

Sunlight was spilling over the rooftops and onto the streets now. Shop owners were sweeping their stoops, flipping their signs from “Closed” to “Open.” The quiet tedium of it all clashed almost hilariously with the current situation.

Another painful silence stretched out between them, so long that Hood was almost certain that Dick has passed out, before the older boy finally said, “I trust you.”


	7. The Things We Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason does what he can to save his brother.

By some feat of fear and desperation, Red Hood managed to shave nearly a minute off his time. He arrived at the McConnel House to find whole building engulfed in flames. The first floor was a loss, and gazing into one of the blown-out windows, he could only pray that Dick hadn’t been down there.

After maneuvering up the side of the building, he broke in through one of the second-floor windows. The air was hot and thick with smoke, and Hood gagged a few times, his eyes watering before he managed to turn on the air filter in his helmet.

Dick was bound to a chair in the center of the room, beaten to hell and unconscious, but still in one piece, which at this point was all Hood could hope for. Hood pulled a breathing apparatus from his belt and secured it over Dick’s mouth and nose before turning his attention to the several boxes stacked around the room.

The explosives, he realized, with a nauseating lurch in his gut.

As he whipped out a knife and began hacking at the older boy’s restraints, he raised his voice over the flames. “Grayson! Come on, man. Don’t make me carry you outta here.”

Dick’s head wobbled in time with the sawing of the blade, and when his hands fell free and he toppled forward, Hood had to push him back to keep him from tumbling to the floor as he got to work on the ropes around Dick’s ankles.

Meanwhile, the thin door was splintering in the heat, and fire was slipping in around the frame and spreading along the walls like a stain.

“Hood?” Oracle called. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Little busy.”

The door gave way with an explosion of wood and debris followed by a massive fire ball that engulfed the entryway. Half the room was ablaze now, and flames lapped ominously at the explosives.

“Shit,” Hood hissed, sweat pooling under his gear. His leather jacket felt like a vice in the suffocating heat and already he was getting dizzy.

With a grunt, Hood sliced through the last of the ropes and yanked Dick out of the chair, heaving him into a fireman’s carry before scrambling back down the side of the building one-handed.

Hood hit the ground running, staggering across the narrow cobblestone street towards his bike. “We’re–”

_Boom!_

The explosion scorched his back sent both of them flying. Car alarms wailed. A shower of wood and bricks and glass rained down around them, pattering the street and cars like hail.

Hood groaned. His ears were ringing, his head throbbing. The car alarms and distant sirens created a disorienting kaleidoscope of sound around him as he struggled to get his bearings.

Beside him, Dick lay unmoving, cocked awkwardly against the tire of a parked car, but he was staring at the remnants of the fire across the street.

Hood sighed, relieved to see him conscious. “You all right?”

The older man’s face was blackened with soot and blood. It looked like he was wearing the remnants of a Batgirl costume though most of his upper body was bare, his torso a gnarly patchwork of bruises.

He was obviously far from all right, but now Hood just needed to know how far.

“Hood? Are you okay?” Oracle shouted. “Status report!”

“I’m all right,” he half groaned. “Dick needs medical but–”

“How badly is he hurt?” It was Batman speaking now, followed by what sounded like a car door closing on his end.

“Not sure. He–” Red Hood, who had propped himself up to get a better look at Dick, froze.

The older man was still watching the fire, his brown eyes twinkling in the dying light, but there was something wrong. His face was lax, his gaze unfocused and glassy.

“Hey,” Hood said, shoving Dick’s shoulder. He slumped sideways.

With mounting horror, Hood tugged off a glove with his teeth and pressed his fingers to Dick’s neck.

“Shit!” he shouted, diving into chest compressions. “ _Shit!_ ”

“What’s going on?” Batman pressed.

“He’s– I’m not getting a pulse.” Beads of sweat dripped down the inside of Hood’s helmet as he threw his full weight into the compressions, definitely cracking a rib or two in the process.

Dick’s head jerked disconcertingly with each compression, and a few times it almost looked like he was staring right at Hood. Like at any moment his mouth might twist into a grin behind the breathing apparatus and he’d say, “ _Gotcha.”_

“Come on…!” Hood grunted. “I held up my end. I got you out, now you’ve gotta live, you idiot.”

Despite the air filter, he felt like couldn’t breathe, and with a frustrated roar he yanked his helmet off and sent it clattering across the cobblestones as a hand came down on his shoulder.

“How long?” Batman asked right beside him.

“One, maybe two minutes.”

“Let me–”

“No.” Hood kept going, ignoring the growing fatigue in his arms and mentally daring Batman to try to move him out of the way.

“What’s happening?” Oracle demanded. “Someone answer me!”

“We’re trying to resuscitate him now,” Batman said. “Stand by.”

Spoiler and Robin dropped from grapple lines to join them. Robin was shouting something. The sirens were getting louder. Batman was relaying medical information to someone. Hood’s arms and lungs were burning with exhaustion.

He barely registered any of it.

Staring at Dick’s slack face, Hood’s mind spun in a wholly unexpected direction. He found himself calculating what it would take to get Dick’s body across the ocean to the Quracci desert where he knew a Lazarus Pit was hidden several miles underground. He would break into the morgue, steal a private jet, and pray the League of Shadows didn’t kill him before he could get Dick into the Pit.

He wondered if Dick – or any of them – would ever forgive him for that.

He decided he didn’t care.

Then Dick moaned and coughed, and Hood exhaled. Batman, Spoiler, and Robin descended upon him. Red Robin was there now too, and as Hood scooted back and got shakily to his feet, the younger boy tossed a quick, appreciative nod his way.

Hood shuffled to his bike and had just swung his leg over it when he spotted a silhouette a little ways off. It was Black Bat, her featureless mask catching the light of the dying fire. He could feel her keen eyes raking over him like blades glancing across skin.

It wasn’t a judgmental gaze, or even harsh, but a question.

“He’s alive,” Hood offered, his voice raw, and hearing that out loud sent a dizzying wave of relief through him.

She continued to watch him, and he could tell that she knew. As if she had been reading his mind. She knew what he had been ready to do. He wondered if she would have sided with him – one product of the Pit to another.

He decided he didn’t care.

When Black Bat went to join the others, Hood sped away, squinting into the gathering daylight as he rounded a corner.


	8. The Things We See

Medical instruments whirred and beeped, filling the sterile air of the private hospital room with a constant hum. Thankfully, Dick had been captured as a civilian and his body was not yet the dense matrix of scar tissue and old injuries that Bruce’s was, so taking him to the hospital was not as risky as it might have otherwise been. Typically, they would have taken him back to the Cave or to Dr. Thompkins, but after watching Jason practically will Dick’s heart back into rhythm, Bruce would have taken Dick to the hospital himself if the paramedics hadn’t arrived so quickly.

That had been three days ago. Since then, Dick had laid mostly unmoving, only waking for a few minutes here and there to blearily ask questions or hold short exchanges.

Bruce looked out the window. Dusk had begun to fall over the city, and soon the batsignal would light up the sky if there was anything pressing going on.

“Are you working tonight?” Bruce asked, and though he spoke in a low murmur, his voice still felt like a jarring intrusion in the stillness.

Barbara looked up from her book and glanced out the window then at the clock. Sighing, she laid the book on her lap and rubbed her eyes.

“You don’t have to,” he continued. “You know that.”

“I know.” She sighed again, turning her gaze to Dick and pushing his hair back from his face. “I should, though. He’d want me to. It’s safer for the others when I’m there.”

Bruce made a point of looking at his phone as she leaned forward to murmur something and kiss Dick’s forehead.

She paused beside his chair on her way out to ask, “What about you?”

“I’m staying.”

“That’ll be the third night in a row.”

“Someone should be here.”

“Right. Because the two dozen nurses on rotation and extra security personnel you had stationed on this floor don’t count.” On a normal day, there would have been a bit more of a bite to her sarcasm. Not mean spirited, but sharp and witty the way she usually was. But today those edges were dulled by exhaustion and the fact that she likely knew what he was saying, even if he wouldn’t say it aloud.

_I will never take my eyes off him again._

“Just make sure you at least try to get a little sleep, okay?”

“Likewise.”

“Hm. Touché.” She patted his leg and wheeled away.

And then Bruce was alone, once again watching the slow rise and fall of Dick’s chest beneath the sheets. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as his thoughts turned outward, to the streets of Gotham where the rest of the kids were out searching for those responsible for this.

Hunting.

“How is he?”

Bruce blinked, startled back to the present.

“Alive,” he answered. “Better.”

There was a deep sigh behind him followed by the sound of boots on tile as Jason entered the room, arms crossed. As far as Bruce knew, this was the first time he’d visited the hospital. In fact, this was the first Bruce had heard from him at all since it all happened.

Something occurred to him then, and he sat upright and took a breath before turning to look at Jason directly. “I owe you an explanation.”

Jason glanced at him with guarded surprise. There was so much tension in every inch of his being that he looked like he would sooner snap in a stiff breeze than bend.

“Tim spoke to me,” Bruce explained, though this was by far an understatement. Once it had become clear that Dick would be okay, Tim had cornered Bruce in the Cave and let him have it.

Bruce couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the boy so upset. He assumed that most of the outburst was likely fueled by the stress of the past few days, but he also knew that Tim had still meant every word.

Jason appeared uncertain, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Bruce continued.

“It was my idea to look into you as a person of interest.”

The younger man managed to go even more rigid. He turned his gaze to Dick. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

“I think we do. Tim told me how much it upset you–”

Jason scoffed. “‘Upset?’ I don’t give a shit what you think of me. I’m not twelve anymore, Bruce.”

Bruce could not begin to express how painfully aware of this he was. Sitting here, staring at the son who he had lost as a boy and had returned a man, Bruce felt almost as if he could count each lost year in the lines and scars on Jason’s face, like the rings in a tree.

“That’s true,” he allowed. “But even so, I want you to know that I regret it.”

“You regret it. Regret what, exactly?”

“Treating you like a suspect.”

“Why? If that’s what I was then why should you treat me any different.”

“Because you _are_ different. You have to know that.”

Bruce could see the muscles working in Jason’s jaw. The younger man’s arms were still crossed, and his fingers were balled in the sleeve along his bicep.

“What are you trying to say.”

And again Bruce felt it, that old wound that had been with him for nearly seven years now. The wound that had opened in him the moment he had lifted Jason’s broken body in his arms and _knew_ that he was gone. It had only grown when he’d found Jason alive again only to learn that there were certain things that even the Lazarus Pit could not resurrect.

It was an ache that reminded Bruce every day of the myriad ways he had failed Jason and continued to do so. He had failed to set him up with a better, healthier life as a child – one far away from Bruce’s own world. He had failed to keep the boy safe. Failed to give him the closure he craved. And now it seemed he had also failed to communicate even the simplest truth.

“You’re my son,” Bruce said, and it felt like an impossibly foolish thing to have to say out loud, like explaining that the sky was blue or grass was green. To think that Bruce had done something to call that into question, or that perhaps he had never made that clear to begin with, was a crushing realization.

He had let his own child down spectacularly. Nothing he could do in life would ever be a suitable restitution. Surely, Bruce would take this with him to his grave.

When Jason finally turned to him, he looked like he’d been struck by lightning. But there was something profoundly sad in his eyes.

“No,” he said after a while, “I’m not.”

“Jason–”

“Your son died, Bruce. He’s not… I’m not that person anymore.”

Bruce wanted to disagree, and he could feel that part of Jason wanted that, too. But this wasn’t entirely false. The Jason who had returned to Gotham was not the same Jason who had once fought by Bruce’s side. It had taken Bruce a while to accept that; he had been so grief-stricken and relieved to have his son back that he had been blind to the obvious fact that things had changed.

That Jason had changed.

Bruce couldn’t be sure how much of that change was due to the circumstances of his death or the passage of time and how much was a result of the Pit itself, but it didn’t matter to him. Not really.

Because when Bruce looked into those green eyes which had once been brown, when he studied the streak of white hair that dangled in the younger man’s face and noted the perpetually defensive set of his mouth and shoulders and all of the other things that had changed since his return, all Bruce saw was Jason.

His son.

And right now, his son was in pain.

“What have I told you about the time after my parents died?” Bruce asked.

“What? Not much, I guess.”

Bruce nodded, unsurprised but vaguely disappointed in himself all the same.

“I went to a dark place,” he explained. “Some kids grieve by lashing out. It’s a cry for help, obviously. They get loud, throw tantrums. I did the opposite. I collapsed in on myself. It was like there was a black hole in my chest, sucking up all of my emotions, my thoughts, my feelings. I didn’t laugh or even cry, really. I barely spoke. I don’t even remember really tasting anything during those days. I walked around for feeling like a shell. Or a ghost.”

Bruce paused. This was a period in his life that he didn’t often reflect on, and now that he was talking about it, the memories were rushing back, vivid and visceral as if he were reliving them.

“What are you–” Jason began, but he quieted when Bruce held up a patient hand.

“After a while, I started to accept that this would just have to be my new reality and I got better at masking it. I learned to smile and laugh at the right times. I talked more and did everything I thought I ought to do to be who I had been before. To be Bruce again. For one thing, I didn’t want Alfred to worry about me, but I was also scared that if I didn’t put on the act he would leave. He had agreed to care for the old Bruce, not whoever this new, damaged person was.

“Then one day – this had to be almost a year later – I was sitting in the den. Not thinking or doing anything, just sitting. I had started doing that a lot. Maintaining the facade was exhausting, so when I was alone sometimes I would just… sit. Only, this time Alfred had been watching me. I have no idea for how long, but eventually he came in and sat next to me and just put his arm around me and I knew in that moment that _he_ knew, even though he didn’t say anything.

“And I was terrified. I expected to wake up the next the day to an empty house, but there he was in the kitchen making breakfast just like always. Still, I couldn’t even look at him and when I got up to leave he stopped me, tilted my face up so that he could look in my eyes, and all he said was ‘I see you, Master Bruce.’

“I see you,” Bruce repeated the phrase to himself, thinking of that moment, those words. How much they had meant to him back then. How much they still meant to him, even now.

“It was all he needed to say,” he continued. “And I realized then that I hadn’t fooled him for a second. He knew that things had changed, that I couldn’t be the boy I had been before. He saw all of that damage – those broken parts in me – and he stayed anyway. I didn’t have try to be something I wasn’t or worry about scaring him away. I could just be. And God, it was like I could breathe again.”

Bruce didn’t realize he’d begun to well up until he felt a tear hit his hand. He wiped his eyes, mildly surprised at himself, then looked to find Jason staring at him, wide-eyed. “What I mean is, I may not always understand you, and I know I’m not the perfect father or ally or whatever it is you see me as these days. But I _see_ you, Jay. All of you. And I’ll never give you another reason to think otherwise.”

Jason’s face went red and he turned away, muttering, “Whatever,” before dragging a chair up near Bruce’s and dropping into it with a heavy _flump_. "Just stop."

Bruce risked clapping the younger man on the shoulder and giving him a quick squeeze. When Jason didn’t recoil from it, he let his hand linger there a second longer than necessary, struggling to remember the last time they had touched like this, before letting go.


	9. The Things We Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick begins the healing process.

By all accounts, Dick should not have survived.

That was what he gleaned from murmured conversations between nurses and snippets of news coverage. His medical records had filled in some blanks, too.

Concussion, multiple fractures, internal hemorrhaging, lacerations, cardiac arrest.

_Cardiac arrest_. The words had played on a loop in his head ever since his doctor had first said them, and even now Dick couldn’t quite make any sense of it.

The doctor had smiled at him afterwards, informed him of how lucky he was to be alive. “Usually when someone goes into cardiac arrest in the field, they don’t even make it to the hospital,” she’d said. “Good thing Batman was there, huh?”

“Batman?”

“Mhm. EMTs saw him. He must have been doing CPR before they got there.”

“Hm,” was all Dick had offered in response, but internally he had clung to those minor details like a drowning man grasping at driftwood.

The majority of that night was lost to him. Listening to the news helped somewhat, but reporters only knew so much. And none of the others – Barbara, Tim, any of them – had been very forthcoming, either.

Dick hadn’t pressed, though. The haunted look in their eyes whenever they came to visit him in the hospital had been enough for him to decide never to bring that night up again. He already hated that he might have inadvertently become added fodder for future nightmares; no need to throw gas on the fire.

He could live with not-knowing what had happened if it meant keeping them from _reliving_ it.

“Richard?”

The young voice dragged Dick’s gaze away from the curtains he’d been staring at to the doorway. He’d been back at the manor for nearly two days now, in bed mostly, and in that time he had yet to see Damian except for the ride back from the hospital.

Now the boy was standing at the threshold with a tea service in his hands, his mouth curled in an uncertain frown. “Am I… interrupting?”

Dick smirked and made a show of looking around the empty bedroom. “Yeah. I’m pretty swamped here, as you can see.”

“You know what I meant.”

“I know, but it was a dumb question, anyway. You know you’re never interrupting, Damian. C’mon.” Dick waved him in with a jerk of his chin then froze and winced as a jolt of pain shot up his spine and into his head.

Damian entered stiffly and set the tray on the bedside table, shoving aside pill bottles and a glass of water.

“Damian?” Dick asked after what felt like a long pause. Damian’s eyes were locked on the tea set, his face scrunched in a way that made him look nervous and uncomfortable and young.

Dick reached out with his good hand and tugged on the boy’s sleeve. “Hey, you okay?”

“Of course, I am,” Damian snapped, pulling his arm out of reach. He scowled at a bookshelf. “Drake is having a difficult time.”

“Tim?” Dick tried to push himself more upright and quickly aborted that mission with a hiss when he felt a sharp tug at the sutures across his abdomen. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

“He blames himself for what happened. For not locating you sooner.”

“He told you that?”

“I overheard him talking to Stephanie.”

“Aw, Tim.” Tim had been noticeably distant, it was true, but Dick had interpreted it as general anxiety about the whole situation. Never in a million years would he have guessed that Tim had managed to convince himself this was his fault.

Damian muttered something, hands now shoved into his pockets.

“What?”

“I said he is a fool. To act as if he is the one who…” Damian swallowed hard, glowering at the carpet.

Birds were gathering and chirping in a bush by the open window, and though the curtains were drawn to protect Dick’s concussed brain from harsh light, hazy beams still found their way in, spilling across the floor and along the foot of the bed.

“He is not the one to blame,” Damian finished.

“No one is.” Dick couldn’t tell if it was the drugs or his injuries that were making this conversation so hard to follow, but he felt like he was missing something, straggling two steps behind. “At least, not any of you.”

Damian looked at him with open disbelief. “I _failed_ you, Richard. If not for my ineptitude, you wouldn’t have– I should have gone with you when you left that night. None of this would have happened if I had just–”

“Stop.” Dick had meant it to be firm, but the word sounded more like a plea. His head was really pounding now, and keeping the pain out of his voice was becoming increasingly difficult. “You can’t let yourself start doing that or else you’ll never stop. It was a freakish, sucky thing that none of us could have anticipated and therefore probably couldn’t have avoided, either. And yeah, maybe if you had been there it wouldn’t have happened. Or maybe something worse would’ve happened instead. We don’t know and we never will, but what I do know is that you did the best you could in the moment.”

“And it was not good enough.”

“Damian–”

“It is my job to be good enough,” Damian maintained. “If I can’t protect you then…” He let the rest go unsaid, his lips pressing together as his eyes glistened. “I am supposed to be able to protect you.”

Oh. So that’s what this was about.

“Damian,” Dick tried again, and what was meant to be a sigh turned into a low groan as his ribs refused to cooperate.

Damian tensed, wide-eyed.

“We’re good. I’m okay,” Dick promised before the boy could sound the alarms. Then, “I’m not Batman anymore, Damian. You’re not my Robin. You don’t have to put that kind of pressure on yourself.”

And again, Damian gave him a look like Dick still just wasn’t getting it, like he missing something glaring and obvious and not worth explaining except to say, “Yes, I do, Richard.”

Dick started to say something, but Damian continued, “You are saying that excessive self-reproach is counter-productive. I understand the sentiment. And I appreciate it. Thank you.”

He turned to the tea service and begin pouring a cup, his entire demeanor changed, suddenly casual . “How is your pain?”

“I…” Dick paused, once again feeling off balance and too slow as the tone and subject of the discussion switched so suddenly. “A four.”

“So, a seven,” Damian deduced, taking one of the pill bottles from the nightstand and opening it after checking the label. “Alfred said if it is above a five then you are to take two of these.”

Dick considered fighting him on this, reluctant to lose the rest of the morning to a drug-fueled haze, but the pulsing ache beneath his skull and the one radiating through his ribs made it difficult. He let Damian tip the capsules into his open palm and threw them back without complaint.

“You got anything planned this morning?” Dick asked, accepting the cup the tea Damian held out.

“Nothing important.”

“Great.” Dick reached across his chest with his good arm to pat the open space in the bed beside him.

After a brief hesitation, Damian circled the mattress and climbed in, his movements so careful that Dick hardly jostled at all.

“What language are you on right now?” Dick asked, settling back into the pillows. It might have been psychosomatic, but already he was feeling drowsy.

“Hungarian.”

“Huh. What happened to Korean?”

“Too easy. I finished that a week ago,” Damian said dismissively, though there was a self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

Dick chuckled. “Show-off. How far along are you?”

“More or less conversational.”

“Nice.” Dick’s eyes were closed now. “Show me something.”

“I am not circus monkey, Richard.”

“Y’know, I grew up in the circus,” Dick mumbled. “The monkeys were my favorite. Miss those little guys.”

He thought he heard Damian sigh – or maybe it was a laugh – before the boy asked, “What do you want to hear?”

“That song Bruce hums all the time. The one he sings when he thinks he’s alone. What’s it called?”

Damian’s voice sounded muffled and far away when he answered, “ _Am I Blue_.”

“Yeah. That.”

Damian cleared his throat and began to recite the lyrics in near-perfect Hungarian. He paused occasionally to search for a word, at times reversing to correct a conjugation before moving on.

Dick was almost completely gone now. The bed had fallen away, and he felt like he was floating through the air with Damian’s voice as a welcome backdrop.

He didn’t notice the quiet chatter had stopped until Damian asked, “Richard?”

“Mm…?”

“You’re not just Batman to me. I mean, that is not why I feel responsible for your wellbeing.”

“’Kay. Y’too…”

After a brief pause, the gentle half-singing began again, and Dick slipped away on the familiar melody.

______________

All of the lights were off in the den when Alfred breezed in with a tray of hot chocolate just as _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ began on the TV. Cass and Stephanie’s arms sprang up from their spots on the floor like weeds, and he placed mugs in their waiting hands before circling around to the others. Tim, curled up on the sofa, accepted his with a muttered thanks without looking up from his phone. Bruce took one for himself and one for Damian who was smushed into his side, mouth hanging open in dead sleep. When Alfred got to where Barbara and Dick were sharing a blanket on the couch, he smiled and set their mugs on the end table.

“Thanks, Alfred,” Dick whispered, glancing over at Barbara’s head on his shoulder to find that she had fallen asleep.

“Of course,” Alfred said. He set the tray aside and took a seat in a nearby chair. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Dick answered, perhaps a bit too quickly because Alfred raised a dubious eyebrow at him.

“Honest,” he added with a rueful grin.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

They sat in silence for a while, the only noise coming from the TV and hushed laughter and whispers between Cassandra and Stephanie on the floor.

The air was thick with the ghost of Thanksgiving dinner and fresh hot chocolate, creating a warm bouquet that was at once comforting and nostalgic. Bruce had a faint smile on his face as he watched the movie, colors and lights splashing across his face. He had one arm draped over Damian’s small frame as if holding him there.

At some point, Tim had stowed his phone and turned so that his legs dangled off the armrest and he could see the screen better, hot chocolate clutched between his hands.

It was one of those admittedly rare moments where there was no clock ticking anywhere in the background. There was work to be done, for sure, but it was not a looming obligation. Tonight, the city for once was quiet. Dick couldn’t remember the last time he had passed an uninterrupted holiday in this house.

“Something is on your mind,” Alfred noted, taking a small sip from his mug.

“I was just thinking about today.”

“Nothing short of a miracle,” the older man said, instantly understanding.

“No kidding. It almost feels suspicious. Like the calm before the–”

“Don’t,” he said firmly, his face illuminated just enough by the TV for Dick to register the stern frown there. “I will not allow you to sully this gift with your dark premonitions. Just enjoy this for what it is: a welcome and much needed respite after the events of the past few weeks.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Dick conceded, cringing a little in self-reproach. “Sorry, Al.”

The old man nodded, his face softening. “Now, would you mind telling me what is actually on your mind?”

Dick let out a breathy, half-hearted laugh. “You’re good.”

“I am indeed.”

With a sigh, he looked toward the TV. A Black Friday commercial was advertising half-priced gaming systems.

“Hey,” Tim whispered, waving his arm at Stephanie.

“What?”

“Get me that.” He pointed at the commercial, and Stephanie scoffed at him before resuming her muted conversation with Cass. After a few days and a much-needed conversation, Dick was happy to see Tim back to his normal self.

“It’s been a while,” he admitted now, returning his attention to Alfred who was watching him patiently, “since I’ve heard from Jason. Over a month, actually. Not the longest we’ve gone without speaking, but it’s the longest in a while.”

The cup paused halfway to Alfred’s mouth, his brow creasing. “Over a month?”

“Yeah,” Dick sighed. “We went on patrol together in October and things got a little rough. I said some stuff and we haven’t spoken since. I’m not even sure he’s still in the city.”

When Alfred continued to look at him, Dick asked, “What?”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how has your memory been as of late?”

Dick adjusted himself, gingerly repositioning Barbara’s head on his shoulder when he felt her beginning to slide off. “Fine now. I can’t remember much of that night. Or, pretty much anything, really. But otherwise I’m all right. Why?”

“And the others? What have they told you?”

“About what happened? I haven’t asked. I didn’t want to... Well, you know.”

“Indeed,” Alfred said with a somber nod, setting down his mug. “It is a night, or a week, rather, that I’m certain we would all like to leave firmly in the past. But even so, I believe there are at least a few details that you ought to know.”


End file.
